Make It Right
by Quillscribe
Summary: Sometimes there is nothing that can be said that can make it right. All the Winchester brothers can do is keep going forward, and try to be there for each other. Will it be enough?
1. Chapter 1

Fandom: SPN

Rating: PG-13 (language/adult themes)

Category: Dean,Sam (gen)

Words: 994

Disclaimer: Don't I wish:-D

Spoilers: Set after 2.05

Notes: Just playing so far. What do you think? Does it have potential?

**Make It Right**

"Dude, are you gonna eat that or what? It's not getting any fresher," Dean says and shoves Sam's ham and cheese sandwich nearly into his lap.

They've stopped for dinner in one of those towns where, if he blinked, Sam would miss it. One coffee shop, two restaurants, a local grocery store that also sells hunting supplies and farm equipment, and two churches. If they're lucky, Pudunk will also have a motel, but the way things have been going lately, he's not willing to lay money on it.

"I'm eating," Sam protests automatically, even though he's not. 

Dean's already consumed his meal, a burger and fries, in just a few enormous bites, and is eyeing the menu for dessert. He eats for fuel, Sam realizes, and wonders how much of it he even tastes.

"No, you're not. You're looking at it like it's going to attack you. Which, I must say," Dean says, reaching across the table to peel back the bread for a second to look at what he's eating, "is not going to happen any time soon. This is dinner, Sammy, not lunch. If you don't like it, why not try something like that?" he asks, and points to the steak and baked potato that drifts by their table on a tray. The steak is so big that the potato has to be served on a separate dish. Sam hopes he isn't turning green at the thought.

Ignoring the 'Sammy', he shrugs then tries on a smile. "It's fine, Dean. I'm just not hungry, man." 

"So what? You didn't eat lunch – I watched you. Quit wasting money and eat your dinner," Dean scolds, and he tries so hard to act normal, to be like he always is, that it almost makes Sam want to cry.

"Alright, alright," Sam gives in, and squashes the sandwich a little with his fingers to make it look smaller. Maybe then he'll eat more of it.

"That's it? No whining?" Dean asks suspiciously, even as he's waving for the waitress.

"Your powers of persuasion are simply overwhelming," Sam teases, then cringes at the look that flashes across Dean's face for just a second before he recovers and rolls his eyes.

He keeps stepping in these minefields without meaning to. It was too close with Webber. He'd barely been able to move, let alone concentrate, when he'd first woken up after being hit over the head with that branch. If it hadn't been for Andy… 

"So are you going to start practicing that Jedi mind stuff? It sure would make things easier if we didn't have to keep stealing people's credit cards," Dean says practically, and Sam wants to smack him over the head with the menu.

"Could you, oh, not talk about credit card fraud in a restaurant full of people?" he asks, and Dean has the audacity to wave his hand at Sam as if signaling for him to keep it down.

"Do you think you could broadcast that any louder?" Dean asks with wide eyes, and Sam sighs and listens as Dean orders pie for both of them. Even though the waitress looks nearly sixty, he still flirts shamelessly with her, and she takes it with good humor.

"Oh, you're a hellion, aren't you? I'll bet you've left a trail of broken hearted waitresses in your path, haven't you?" she scolds, and Sam stiffens even as Dean smiles wide.

_Because that's what it's all about, isn't it?_ Sam thinks as he idly watches Dean's eyes rove the restaurant, automatically categorizing the threats, the volatile ones, and who might even be packing weapons. And all the pretty girls, too, of course. It doesn't take long for Sam to spot that some of them are watching back. It's ironic how naturally social Dean is, considering the life they lead.

_What does the Demon want with me? Why did he murder Jess, too? Why go after the mothers sometimes, but not always?_ There are too many new variables, and Sam's itching to research. It's what he does; what he's always done best. They just need to stay in one place long enough to be able to buy a damn laptop. With dad's fake credit cards, he discovered a few weeks ago, they can afford it. Dad's never done anything halfway.

Sam manages to eat half the sandwich, but the steak fries are limp and cold. Thankfully, though, dessert is fresh and obviously homemade. Dean closes his eyes in bliss and grins at Sam when he catches him watching, his teeth red and flecked with strawberry seeds.

"Gross," Sam says and throws his napkin. "Do I need to give you a moment of privacy with the pie?" he asks, and Dean throws his head back in mock ecstasy, stopping more than one conversation in the room.

Sam drops his head onto his arms in embarrassment, forgetting about his cast as he knocks his forehead against it. "Ouch," he says, and glares through his hair as he watches Dean snort in laughter.

Dean's trying too hard, and if Sam didn't _know_ him like he does, he'd almost believe it. They've both got secrets, and wounds they're trying to hide from each other. Dean feels unnatural for living while dad died. Sam just feels unnatural, and like he's let both his brother and his dad down in every way imaginable.

He should have known better than to hope they could rebuild their relationship. To dream of a chance to team up with both his brother and his dad again; the only family he's ever known; and finally not be the dead weight always holding them back. He should have taken the shot – done what dad had begged him to do. Instead, his brother's falling apart behind a cocky façade, and Sam refuses to think of what else his dad might have traded, other than his life, to save Dean.

Dean asks the waitress about a good motel, and Sam smiles appreciatively when she takes the napkin he threw at Dean to draw up a map. He knows his smile is a little weak around the edges, but they both are lately, and it's the best he's got, so it'll have to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Fandom: SPN

Rating: PG-13 (language/adult themes)

Category: Dean,Sam (gen)

Words: 1110

Disclaimer: Don't I wish:-D

Spoilers: Set after 2.05

Notes: Starting to get a plot. Waaay behind on the November Writing Month thing, but now that I have plottage rubs hands together… g Now we're getting somewhere.

**Make It Right**

**Chapter 2**

Sam knows he comes by his stubbornness honestly. Pig headedness certainly runs in the family, he thinks wryly and glances surreptitiously at his brother. It should be on the family crest, he decides, and knows he's starting to get loopy.

It's his latest bought of insanity, he knows, and probably as pathetic as sticking his head in the sand and trying to wish it all away. It hasn't stopped him from doing it for the last month, though, and while it's been somewhat successful, it's not without its repercussions.

Avoiding sleep only works for so long. He's come to terms with this. He gets too sloppy on the hunt, and has endangered Dean enough to know it's not the answer. Well, it's not the whole answer.

After all, this all started as a way to try to avoid the nightmares. Not that he hasn't gotten good at catching the scream before it leaves his throat, and stumbling to the bathroom first; shutting the door and turning on the fan before he dry heaves into the toilet. But no sleep makes Sam mercurial, and that's the last thing he needs with how Dean's been lately.

Dean's hanging by a thread, and his brittle flashes of smile and bitter jabs have gotten far from brotherly. They're sharp and painful, and meant to cut, which they do. He'll never say a word about it, though. Hell, he'd be happy to be Dean's punching bag physically as well if he'd let him. If it would help. But other than that once, Dean hasn't touched him since, which leaves the barbs.

Thankfully, although he knows Dean's suspicious, he hasn't figured out what's going on yet. Benadryl combined with a couple of warm beers he saves for late at night, when he's finally too exhausted to fight sleep anymore, have worked. Well, mostly.

At first he thought the headaches were a slight hangover from his self medication, but he knows better now. He's starting to remember flashes of his dreams, no, visions, these last few days, and knows his reprieve is mostly over.

The headaches were always too sharp, the lights too bright, and his bones felt too big for his skin, so really, he should have known better. Denial isn't just a river in Egypt. When the pain gets too much, sometimes he feels maudlin and wonders how easy it would be to just drift away with his visions; not fight them, and not care if he ever makes it back. He won't, though, and always brings his train of thought back to what's important: taking care of Dean.

He catches himself now before his mind takes him to things too unbearable. _Don't think about it. Think of something else. Don't go there, Sam_, he screams in his mind when he sees the back of a woman on the sidewalk and could swear it's Jess. When he sees her in the shoplifter mirror tucked in the corner of the Qwik-e-Mart, or just last night, driving by in the back of a pickup with a group of other college kids as he'd been pumping gas.

Time slowed as she passed, and he can still see her long hair swirl around and whip into her face as the kids motor on to their football game, or homecoming, or wherever the hell they're going to. Each time he sees her, she always has a gentle smile, and there's no blame in her eyes. She's sad, though, and looks tired. Almost apologetic.

Certainly nothing like she'd been in life. She'd been vibrant; the brightest thing in the room. People naturally gravitated to her. With a raunchy joke and a bright, hearty laugh, she'd captivated Sam from the moment he saw her, and it still made him ache in a way that made him feel broken and twisted inside, whereas losing Dad just makes him feel lost and empty.

He's made into a game, desperately searching the roadside for something, anything to distract him, when he thinks he sees her. He likes to call it the avoidance game, and knows he's really not dealing well, and might even be going a little mad, but refuses to think about it too much, which amuses him, as it's a self perpetuating loop.

This latest round of avoidance ironically has also given him a means of avoiding visions during the day. Well, avoiding them isn't the right word, he amends silently. Desperately holding them off until he's out of sight of Dean is more the reality.

He's also begun to employ the same focus to not seeing the visions that he's been using for not thinking about Dad and Jess, and how he almost lost Dean, and still could if he's not vigilant.

Now he gets the vision pain with only mild impressions of what happens. Something bad happens, people die, and his body is either a conduit of evil, or just a magnet for it. Yadda yadda. Same story, different day. A Shakespeare tragedy. His inner voice is getting snarky enough, Sam's begun to wonder if he's not channeling his inner Dean.

Granted, trying to forestall the visions means he's been annoying the hell out of his brother for more frequent road stops, but it's been worth it so far. The side affects; an even more diminished appetite, frequent nose bleeds, and the ever constant headache are worth it, he's decided. He doesn't care, dammit. It's not a gift, it's a curse, and if he could give it back, even if it meant he had to carve out part of his brain with a spoon, he'd do it.

He feels filthy, inside and out. Tainted, corrupt somehow. There's no question Mom died because of something the Demon wanted from him. Jess, too. Now Dad's dead anyway, despite his pathetic attempts, and Dean's a hair's breath from suicidal as well. It doesn't take a genius to know that if he was taken out of the equation, the Winchester family would be one hell of a happy place, and makes him sympathize with those people who have obsessive compulsive disorder, and do things like bleach their hands and scrub their skin until it bleeds. He'd do it, too, if he wasn't positive Dean would notice it in a heartbeat.

So he does this instead. It's his way of coping. And while Dean's suspicious, he hasn't figured it out. The fact that it's working less and less every day, and that he's no longer as able to hide how much weight he's lost under layers and layers of clothes is beside the point. For today, it's working, so for today, it's what he goes with.


	3. Chapter 3

Rating: PG-16 (language/adult themes)

Category: Dean,Sam (gen)

Words: 4164

Disclaimer: Don't I wish:-D

Summary: Sometimes there is nothing that can be said that can make it right. All the Winchester brothers can do is keep going forward, and try to be there for each other. Will it be enough?

Spoilers: Set after at least 2.05 (but is still on track for the most part even post _Crossroad Blues_)

AN: Finally things are starting to happen. ;-) I haven't had anyone beta this, so any and all mistakes are mine.

**Make It Right**

**Chapter 3**

"Diana?" Sam asked, keeping his voice quiet. He'd stepped outside, far enough away from the motel room that hopefully he wouldn't wake Dean. Ice clanked loudly in the ice machine, making him start even as he kept an eye on the door, and he sighed.

"_Sam? Is that you?_" Detective Diana Ballard asked, and he could hear the concern in her voice over the line. Sam huffed a soft laugh, then frowned in annoyance when he felt warmth slide down his upper lip. Dammit, his nose was bleeding again. Pulling a Kleenex from his pocket (he was never without them nowadays), he dabbed it against his nose as he brought his focus back to the cell phone.

"Yeah, it's me. Do you have a second?" he asked.

"_Of course. What's up?_" she asked, her voice part curious and part reluctant. Her tone made him smile.

"I've been thinking about what you said, and was wondering…?" Sam paused, not sure how to ask. He'd been over and over things in his mind, and he'd certainly had plenty of time to think. But he needed her help, or someone's help. Someone on the inside.

"_Wondering about what? Are you and your brother okay?_" she asked, and Sam was touched. She hardly knew them, yet the question rang as sincere.

It was nearly three in the morning, _the witching hour_, his brain supplied, and the highway beside the motel was devoid of cars in either direction. He'd known she was working the night shift, and when the best time to call would be. Things were so much easier now that he had a computer once more.

It was a moonless night, with only stars, the pop machine and the stark red neon of the vacancy sign to illuminate the parking lot. Sadly, even those lights were giving him a headache. There were only a few other vehicles in the lot, evidence that they'd stopped during a slow time, and the majority of those were either motor homes or cars towing motorcycles and three wheelers. One old Oldsmobile, tucked close to the motel, was hitched to a U Haul trailer, and idly Sam wondered if its owners were moving, and if so, were they moving _to_ or _from_?

"We're good. We're fine. It's just… You know that murder in St. Louis?" Sam asked, and pulled the tissue from his nose to see if it was still bleeding. It was.

"_Yes? What's going on, Sam? Is there something you want to tell me?_" Diane began, and Sam's eyes widened.

"No, no. Nothing like that. Okay. Just hear me out on this, okay, because I know it's weird, but I want to talk about it. I'm hoping it might help Dean," Sam said, and began to explain, in depth, about the shape shifter they encountered, how they'd heard about it, how they'd begun tracking it, and what they'd found down in the sewers.

He was candid about how it had taken Dean's shape, and what it had done, and got as specific as he could when describing the clumps of… flesh? Or whatever it was that they'd found scattered throughout its… nest?. After he was done, Diane was silent for a moment before speaking.

"_Just what do you think I can do?_" she asked, and he could hear the humor in her voice. At least she was intrigued.

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh all you want, but Dean's got an arrest warrant for murder, and with what we do, we _need_ to stay off the grid. You know?" he replied, but was smiling himself.

"_Seriously, I do have some friends in St. Louis, but I'm not sure what you're looking for,"_ she offered.

"Here's what I'm wondering. That shape shifter… It took Dean's shape, but it still wasn't Dean. It accessed some of his memories and stuff, but that's not something he'd get from DNA, that's… something else," Sam said, processing as he spoke to try to best articulate his thoughts.

"So, I'm wondering… That DNA evidence they say was from the other murder scene? Is there any way you could get someone to check that against some of those clumps? That was the shape shifter's skin. As in _shedding_. It was nasty stuff, and I'm sure it all got bagged and tagged," Sam said, and Diane grunted in agreement as he paused.

"I'm thinking, if the DNA comes up the same on all those clumps, then they're his, not Dean's. Some of those looked a couple of weeks old, and we were only there a couple of days. Maybe we can prove it wasn't Dean's DNA at the scene. Couple that with Rebecca's testimony about how she thought it was Dean, but later learned it wasn't... What do you think?" he trailed off, knowing it was weak.

"_It's pretty thin, Sam,_" she said regretfully, but still thoughtful.

"Yeah, well, the murder charge was supposed to be buried with the Shape Shifter. Case closed," Sam replied.

"_I can see where that's a problem,_" she agreed, and he could tell she was distracted.

"Do you need to go?" he asked politely, his hopes plummeting. So much for wild ideas of things that might help Dean out. That's what he got for living off coffee and Red Bull anyway.

"_No. Sorry, Sam, I was writing down notes on what you said. I don't know what I can do to help get the case against Dean dropped, but I think my friend's got enough of a connection to some of the techs down there… Do you know what precinct?_" she asked abruptly.

"I don't. Sorry," Sam apologized.

"_Nah, that's okay. Because of what happened here, I've got enough to give him the ammunition he needs to get the inquiry reopened… Is that okay?" _

"Yeah, the warrant's out there, and now with Sheridan's inquiries, they know Dean's still alive… Go for it," he said, and something about it felt right. Whether it was a psychic thing, or just his anxiety for his brother finally manifesting into tangible efforts, he didn't know, but it felt good.

"_Sure thing. You saw I got the charges against the both of you dropped?_" she asked.

"I did. Thanks," he said, and meant it. Unfortunately, Dean was now in the fed database, which was a whole different can of worms, but still…

"_Yeah, well, nothing like a world view change to shake the cobwebs out of the attic,_" she replied dryly. "_I gotta head out, but I'll get started on this. I see you've got an unlisted number… How about just trying back in a couple of weeks? With the backlog, it's going to take a bit to get anything rolling._"

"That'd be great," Sam said, relieved. He didn't care how long it took. He just wanted Dean cleared, and that DNA thing… It was the only angle he hadn't thought to explore.

"_You two be careful out there,_" she said, and at Sam's laugh, hung up. Sam stared at the phone for a second, before the glare of the keypad was too much, and bit at his lip.

"You're being industrious for three in the morning," Dean said from the shadows, and startled Sam enough that he nearly dropped the cell phone to reach for his gun.

"Jesus, Dean!" he said, and realized Dean's eyes were on the tissue he was still holding to his nose.

"Scared you? I see you were keeping the motel staked out," he said, his voice flinty, and Sam knew he was screwed.

"I didn't see you come out," Sam said, and could see by Dean's expression that he was officially busted. _Great_.

"That's what I was hoping for," Dean replied, approaching Sam with that slow, lazy walk he got when he was in a particularly predatory mood. "Thanks, by the way," he said, and Sam felt like a butterfly pinned to a board.

"For what?" he asked, even though he didn't want to. This was Dean's dance.

"The time to snoop through your stuff. Allergies bothering you this time of year?" Dean asked in a good mimicry of a commercial, and pulled out the mostly empty Benadryl bottle.

"Dean…" Sam began, but Dean put his hand in the air to cut him off and nodded towards the motel room.

"No, Sam, no more bullshit, and no more of your trying to weasel out of talking to me. I've been patient, but this," Dean said, and yanked Sam's hand with the tissue away from his face to reveal that the nosebleed was finally starting to taper off, "is not a good sign."

Dean grabbed Sam by the back of his jacket and directed him towards the door, and Sam jerked away, angry and embarrassed and frustrated that Dean could force talks when he felt like it, but Sam couldn't do a thing to help his brother without making things worse.

The lights were still off when they entered, the reason why Sam had thought his brother still asleep, and when Dean turned them on as he crossed the salt lines, following behind, Sam had to put his hands to his eyes to block out the light.

"Turn it off. Turn them off," Sam hissed, the light like knives in his eyes. Dean flipped the switch off.

"I know you've been self-medicating to sleep, Sam," Dean started out, his face hidden in the shadows, his back to the partially illuminated windows as he sat on the bed nearest the door. Sam sighed as he sat on the twin facing his brother, and ran his good hand through his hair. "Two beers, though? Dude, you are such a lightweight," Dean said with a mock disappointed sigh, and even in the semi darkness, Sam could see him shake his head.

"What else could I do? Not sleep? We saw how well that was working," Sam said bitterly, feeling like a child and resenting the hell out of it.

"No, I'm not complaining. You're a cranky bitch when you're exhausted, so I appreciate the effort," Dean said, and Sam marveled at how he could want to smack his brother, even when he was trying to 'help'.

"Wow. Well, Dean, I'm really glad we had this heart to heart, but I think I'll go to sleep now," Sam said and leaned forward to jerk his shoes off. It would have been a nice way to leave the conversation, too, if his headache hadn't chosen that moment to amp up and give him a fit of vertigo almost strong enough to have him falling off the bed.

"Oh, we haven't even started, little brother," Dean said softly, and Sam marveled at his brother's ability to sound equally pissed and worried in the same breath as he caught Sam's shoulders before he could topple forward, and eased him back on the bed.

It gave Sam an odd moment of nostalgia to sit quietly as Dean unlaced his shoes and pulled them off his feet. He held his breath to keep the emotions at bay as Dean propped up the pillows behind Sam without even asking and let his hands linger just a second on Sam's shoulder, making sure he was steady, before pulling back to sit across from him.

"Look, what do you want me to say?" Sam asked wearily. He didn't want this to be about him. How did it always end up about him?

"How about the truth? For once. Unvarnished and unedited. Shock me, Sam, and explain to me how you've been trying to hide the nosebleeds, the constant headaches, and pass yourself off as hunkey dorey," Dean said, and stilled. "Or did you think I'm that stupid? That I really wouldn't notice?" he asked, and the hair raised on Sam's forearms. Oh yeah. Dean was pissed.

"I don't think you're stupid, Dean… I was just hoping for preoccupied," Sam replied cautiously.

"Yeah, well, I may be, but I'm not blind. What is going on with you? Are you having visions?"

"I don't know," Sam replied and leaned his head back, letting his eyes close wearily.

"What do you mean 'you don't know'? That doesn't make sense, Sam," Dean pressed.

"I mean, I've been…" _Trying not to see Jess everywhere. Trying not to fall apart. Trying to pretend I'm normal. Trying not to lose you, too._ "Trying to hold them back," Sam finally said.

"You can do that?" Dean asked, shocked. Sam snorted bitterly.

"Actually, I don't think so. I think that's what the visions are – my weird ass abilities forcing themselves whether I want them or not," Sam said tiredly. Jesus, his headache just kept getting worse and worse.

"Then why bother trying?" Dean asked, puzzled, truly trying to figure out what Sam was telling him.

"Because it was sort of working for a while. But I think I've been sort of having them anyway – just not quite remembering them," Sam said with a sigh.

"Your dreams?" Dean asked softly.

"How did you know?" Sam asked, startled.

"Because you keep waking me up, dork. Even with your booze pill combo pack, you've been muttering in your sleep… It almost sounds like Latin, but I can't make out what you're saying."

Sam sighed again, and pressed his good hand against the bridge of his nose, trying to hold off the pain. Even with no lights on in the room, it almost felt too bright. His heart was pounding, and Sam realized he was panting slightly.

"Sam?" Dean's voice said, and Sam realized he must have called his name a couple of times. _Whoops._

"Yeah?" Sam replied, his voice gravelly.

"I don't think this is the answer," Dean said, and came to sit beside Sam on his bed. "Look at you. This is really messing with you. I know the visions suck, man, but I think you gotta let them happen."

Sam laughed bitterly, and brought his other hand with the cast to his face, pressing against his forehead, fingers clutching at his hair. The pain suddenly multiplied, and Sam lurched forward, gasping for air as his world became nothing but the throbbing behind his eyes. He jerked again, and knew he cried out in pain, but could barely hear his own voice as he tried to lighten the tension and say, "Good, 'cause it looks like I'm getting one."

He suspected he hadn't gotten the words out completely, though, but wasn't sure. His body spasmed, and he knew he was making awful sounds, but damn it hurt, and _dear God just let it start already_. Then, through the pain, his awareness was sucked away, and the vision began.

_She sits at the table, not commenting on how odd her parents are acting. Her little brother is busily throwing his food on the floor and smashing his spoon against the high chair. No one is correcting him, other than to pull the spoon out of his hand, and no one is picking up the food or paying him attention. _

_Instead, they're watching her, staring as she eats her dinner. As if they're waiting for something. "What?" she asks, and wipes at her mouth. "Do I have something on my face?" she prompts, trying to get some reaction out of them. _

"_You want some more milk?" her step mom asks, and she shakes her head. _

"_No thanks," she replies, and feels scared, all of a sudden. She decides she is thirsty after all, and pulls the glass to her to take a sip, and stares in shock as it slips through her fingers and falls to the floor. Her brother jerks, but is oddly silent, and now she is terrified. _

_She stands so fast she's toppled the chair, and is trying to back away. She's feeling dizzy and disoriented, and when she looks at her parents, they aren't surprised. They're just watching. _

"_Mom? Dad? What did you do?" she asks. _

"_What we should have done before," her father replies solemnly. _

_She's panicking now, trying to head for the door without turning her back on them. "No. Please! You can't…" she says, and feels the world tilt as she falls to her knees, jarred enough that she knows it should have hurt when she hit the linoleum, but it doesn't. _

"_Please don't do this. Dad, I'm not evil," she begs, tears running down her face, her words starting to slur. Her little brother is staring at her silently, and she hates that her parents are letting him watch this, even if he's likely to be too young to remember._

"_I don't want to do this! I'm not a bad person!" she tries again._

"_This has nothing to do with you being evil," her dad says, and both of her parent's eyes are oddly expressionless. He's saying it like it's okay she's evil, not that she's not evil. _

"_Is this about what's been happening lately?" she asks desperately. "I'll make it stop! I promise. I'll find a way!" she says, and tries to reach out even as she's falling further to the floor, only barely holding herself up. The room is beginning to dim, and both her mom and dad are still seated at the table. _

"_Dad?" she whimpers and can no longer even hold her head up. The terror has begun to float distantly away, and she finds herself too numb to care when her dad says, "He's your father now." A hand touches her shoulder from behind. There is someone else in the room._

Sam gasped and arched on the bed, horrified, and automatically reached out in a near blind panic, not really clear what he was reaching for. Dean grabbed his hands and held them tight enough to burn, to make his broken hand ache, but it was an anchor. He was afraid he was going to be sick.

"Easy. Deep breathes. Come on Sam. Take it easy," Dean said, and Sam tried, but suddenly it was back, the pain worse than before, and pulled him under before he could even get a word out.

_She's drifting, senses warped. She's so hungry now, and his face is drooping, running like fresh paint in the summer sun. The voice she's listened to for so long is just a buzz, humming in her ear, words no longer distinguishable. She knows she's been given something, quite a few somethings, really, and she feels herself stretching out beyond, reaching, grasping, reeling…_

_She'd felt the tug, earlier, and pulled it to her. "Am I evil?" she tries to whisper, but her lips are too parched, and she wouldn't be able to form the words even if they weren't. He understands anyway._

"No," _he replies, and she can feel his grief. _

"_I don't to be alone. Please don't leave," she begs in her mind, and starts at the sound of skittering feet, all around her. "I didn't ask for the Sight." _

"I can't stay. Do you know where you are? Can you think of anything that might help me find you?_" he asks, and **it hurts**, but his need to help her is stronger, and he's trying to see, but it's through her eyes, and he can't make any sense of what he's seeing. He's starting to lose touch of what is him, and what is her, and knows he has to find a way to break the connection. _

"_Chicago," she slurs and pulls him in closer to her. "I think." _

"What's your name?"

"_Pamela Lyon," she replies automatically, and starts to seize. Something is stuck into her mouth, and he's seizing right along with her, and he's starting to shut down, and he can't seem to get a breath. Everything's blurry, like an impressionist painting with the brush strokes too far apart to make it congeal into anything tangible. _

_A dark haired woman, with brown eyes and round cheeks, swims into his vision, the first clear image he's seen. She takes his face in hers and looks into his eyes._

"Wake up," _she says in a gentle voice, laced in a heavy accent he can't quite place, and he does._

He felt sunlight against his face, the next time he was aware. He swallowed, and let his head fall to the side, slowly opening his eyes to look for Dean. That was the way he'd always done it. Find Dean first, then figure out the rest later

"Sam? Are you awake?" Dean asked, and knelt beside him, letting his hand run through Sam's hair soothingly. Sam tried to swallow again, and nodded.

"So… You won't be trying to suppress those anymore, right?" Dean asked after a pause, and even though Sam hurt all over, he couldn't help but smile as he closed his eyes wearily.

"Right," Sam agreed, and knew he was already drifting off again.

"Sleep all you need to, little brother," Dean said, and Sam again felt the warm rough touch of Dean's hand against his face. It felt comforting, so much like things used to be, and he was deeply grateful when Dean brushed a finger against his wet lashes and didn't say anything.

Sam hated describing these visions to Dean, because they touched on so many of his own fears and made it feel so personal. He understood why he was having them of her, because clearly she was like Sam, but he had no idea who had taken her.

Worst case scenario, as far as he could tell, was that the Demon itself was the stranger in the room. Clearly, her family had turned the girl over to someone or something, and based on how much she was begging not to be evil, it certainly seemed like they wanted her for nefarious purposes. A cult, maybe? That 'Father' reference… A possessed priest? Do priests even get possessed? Satanists?

"Dude? Nefarious?" Dean interrupted, looking highly amused. _Shit_. He'd said that aloud, hadn't he?

"Dean," Sam warned, but with little energy, as he stared at Dean who was currently choking on his breakfast.

"What do you expect? My God, you're a nerd," Dean said, and while Sam appreciated that he was trying to lighten the mood, all Sam could think was _Now, have to find her now. She's dying!_

Sam took a big gulp of his coffee and stared at his oatmeal. He'd actually put a decent dent in the bowl, and was feeling somewhat human, between that and the shower.

"I hate Chicago," Sam said quietly.

As soon as he'd explained the details of both visions, Dean had automatically started packing up for both of them, with a curt 'Dude, get cleaned up' when Sam tried to help. As soon as Dean finished up his meal, they were hitting the road. It turned out Sam had slept for nearly eight hours. A record, really , but still, it felt like wasted time. He would have rather slept in the car.

"I know you do. I'm not too fond of the place myself," Dean replied, his look direct and scrutinizing. "Good job getting a name. That's going to help a lot," he said after a moment.

"Yeah, especially since her parents don't seem like they'll be filing a missing persons report anytime soon," Sam agreed, ridiculously warmed by the compliment.

"That's a first, though. Isn't it? Interacting with the person?" Dean asked. Sam pursed his lips and nodded.

"It seems like they had her all loaded up on drugs. I think that might have been the reason why. She…" Sam said, and paused to try to find the right words. "It was like she's shifted. Like she was seeing things, but out of whack. I think she sensed me, and that's why I had the second vision. Somehow she knew I was there."

"Okay. That is officially creepy," Dean said, yet still smiled automatically up at the waitress as she delivered the check. He handed her the credit card with a wink to take with her, before she could walk away.

Sam yawned wide and nodded. _How could he still be so tired?_ "Yeah," he agreed. "You're telling me."

"You ready to hit the road?" Dean asked as the waitress came back.

He signed the receipt without really glancing at it, not even pausing to calculate what tip to add. Dean had always been good at numbers of all sorts, something Sam envied. It amazed him, how Dean always called him a geek. Dean was incredibly smart, and sometimes Sam just wanted to shake his brother when he pretended not to be. Which was, oh, usually_ most of the time. _

"Definitely," Sam said and stretched his arms over his head, feeling his back and shoulders pop.

"Jesus you're tall," Dean said seriously as he watched Sam's hands nearly brush the ceiling. "How's the weather up there?"

"Oh my God. Tell me you did not just say that," Sam replied, following his brother outside. Dean turned that polished smile of his on Sam, all bright and playful. Dean was so good at acting like everything was normal. Sam marveled at it. Really, it was a gift. A gift he truly appreciated about forty percent of the time, and wanted to return the other sixty.

"Try to get some sleep," Dean said as they both got in the Impala.

Sam didn't say anything. He'd been so tired he'd nearly tripped twice heading back to the car. Yeah, he could definitely use the rest. He just hoped he didn't dream. Especially since Dean had stolen his Benadryl.


	4. Chapter 4

Category: Dean,Sam (gen)  
Words: 5321  
Disclaimer: Don't I wish:-D  
Spoilers: Set after at least 2.05 (but is still on track even post-_Crossroad Blues_)

Author's Note: So, being the OCD person that I am, I've learned up on how the boys could feasibly do the whole credit card thing and not got caught for so many years. The mentions I make of it in the first chapter will need to be tweaked just a little, because our boys don't just randomly steal stuff like that. They have a method, and typically do it in such a way that it really is pretty much a victimless crime (except to the credit card company). So bear with me. I know the early chapter or two has been wobbly, but we're rolling now. Really! **_g_**

**Make It Right  
Chapter 4**

It was just a little after six the next morning, and for once, Sam had gotten more than two hours of sleep in a row. His vision headache still throbbed dully, but it was more bearable than it had been in a while, and if asked, Sam could have honestly answered that he felt somewhat human. Not that anyone was asking, he thought with amusement.

"Mmmmmph," Dean murmured as he buried his face further into his pillow, and even though Sam was anxious to get moving, he'd already decided a few minutes more wouldn't hurt. He wasn't the only one having a hard time sleeping.

He glanced over at Dean, just to check that he was still out, and had to stifle the urge not to go hunting for a plastic spoon to stick in his brother's slightly open mouth. He knew, though, as soon as he started to stir, Dean would wake up immediately. Resolving himself to just be patient, Sam resumed staring at the water stains on the motel room's ceiling. He'd been entertaining himself with trying to decide what the shapes looked like, Rorschach-style.

Dean's breathing was still deep and even and his cheek was smooshed against the pillow. He lay sprawled on top of the covers, one hand hanging off the side of the bed and the other tucked underneath his pillow – undoubtedly just inches from the handle of his knife. He'd insisted on driving the whole time, nearly twelve hours, and had even kept the music low to try to help Sam get some rest.

As Sam resumed his scrutiny of the water stains, he thought it ironic just how horribly hypocritical he was being with Dean regarding Dad. His brother would kill him if he knew, too, which was why Sam had no intention of ever telling him the truth… But that didn't mean he wasn't honest with himself. It was a character flaw.

Sam had gotten aggressive with his brother to try to get him to deal with their dad's death. He'd gotten pushy, and touchy feely, and all those other things Dean loathed, but he'd had to try _something_, because whatever the hell Dean was doing still wasn't working. His brother seemed bent on a path of self-destruction, and Sam didn't know how else he _could_ help. He was terrified. He'd already lost too much, and now he was a close to losing Dean, too.

So Sam had approached things as if he himself were trying to deal, because he knew that took a lot of the wind out of Dean's sails. He couldn't begrudge Sam his grief, after all. But Sam wasn't grieving. Not really. There was too much baggage, and he hadn't even gotten over Jessica yet to begin to face Dad's death. He just felt permanently sucker punched, like he couldn't ever get enough air in his lungs. The only thing that gave him focus, really, was trying to watch out for Dean.

But he guessed it had been inevitable that all that pushing on Dean would eventually come back on him as well. Ironically, it was Dean's brutal honestly as Sam had tried to reach him that was the cause of his current reflective mood. He'd held so tightly to his anger for so long; to keep him going when he'd thought he'd lost both his dad and Dean for good after leaving for college, and then afterwards, that he'd suppressed a lot of his memories of the good times.

There was a lot more to his childhood than dumpster diving for discarded credit card pre-approvals (thank God they'd developed a better system since then) and late nights in the car with the doors locked. He still had nightmares of sitting, huddled up in blankets on the floor of the back seat of the Impala, listening to unnatural screams and shotgun blasts off in the distance as he waited, hidden, praying it would be Dean or Dad that came knocking on the window to give him the 'all clear', and not what they'd been hunting.

Yes, there had been too many times where Sam could vividly recall sitting on the floor of dingy motel bathrooms, watching his father's blood slide down his body. How pale Dad had always looked, grey, and too old underneath the unkind fluorescent lights while Sam had stitched him up because Dean was too hurt to do it, or worse, unconscious. Tired and sad. As if steel will alone was all that carried Dad forward.

But that wasn't _all_ of his childhood. There had been so much more than that, and it was as if Dean's angry words were opening those memories up like a floodgate, leaving Sam breathless and heartbroken at the things he'd never said to his father, and now he never could.

He remembered a time, when he had just turned 13, and his dad had realized Sam was finally tall enough to reach the car pedals. He'd sent both he and Dean off to school as usual, but at the end of the day, instead of Dean waiting for him in the parking lot to drive him home, there stood Dad, not Dean, leaning against the Impala, tall and imposing with a smirk on his face that Sam rarely ever got to see.

"So, you want to learn something cool today?" his dad had casually asked in that rumbling voice of his, and Sam, torn as usual between the fear of just _what_ his dad wanted to teach and his own ever present curiosity, had nodded his head, feeling nervous and excited all at once.

That day, his dad took him out on the back roads and taught him how to drive. Not the steering part – he'd known how to do that since he was eight. _Had_ done that, in fact, more than once, sitting on his father's bloodied lap, guiding the Impala home with soft prompts of 'slow down, Dad, there's a stop sign coming up' or 'we're going need to speed up a little before someone thinks we're drunk' that his dad, even barely conscious, obeyed, with Dean lying injured in the back seat.

This day had been different. This was Dad teaching Sam how to take the Impala to her limit, teaching him to feel how far he could take the corners, and when she would start to lose her grip. How to control skids and slips, and just how far he could push.

He still remembers vividly how he'd glanced at his dad out of the corner of his eye while he'd kept control during a spin. The look on his father's face was utterly unafraid. There'd been a fierce smile on his lips and a fire in his eye. His dad had been having fun. _This_, Sam had thought at the time, was what being a Winchester was about. This legacy, so unique to them. He'd never been prouder to be his father's son. He'd never had so much fun himself.

Dean had always appreciated that. Reveled in that uniqueness, and wore it like a badge of honor. The gifts Sam got for Christmas that year weren't just a Winchester thing, but a right of passage; one he hadn't understood at the time, but Dean had. His brother had been so proud, but Sam could also see the fear, carefully cloaked, in Dean's eyes each time as he'd shoot a glance towards their dad after each present Sam opened; as if silently asking, _Are you sure? Do you really think it's time?_

His very own Browning semi-automatic, the basic lock-picking set and Slim Jim, and even the custom knives that he got later that year for his birthday… All of those gifts were symbolic; his dad's way of announcing that Sam was no longer just the youngest, the one his dad and Dean both protected, but also capable of his own means of escape, his own self protection, and able to hold his own on a hunt. He'd hunted before, yes, many many times, and had trained with Dean since he was ten, but never as a 'hunter'. Only backup. Support.

From that day forward, his father began to shed the skin of Dad layer by layer, leaving only the Marine behind. Gone was the man who still occasionally hugged Sam when he was upset; who looked both bemused and proud all at once when Sam brought home straight A's from school, even with having moved twelve times in a single year.

All those tender parts of John Winchester, the parts he'd mostly buried anyway, were discarded when Sam's full-on training began in earnest, until only the boot camp drill instructor remained. Dad was gone, leaving a gruff, forbidding man who was never satisfied and never pleased, who always compared Sam's failings to the accomplishments of his brother. Never strong enough, fast enough, quick enough.

Truthfully, he might have become that perfect soldier, too, if he hadn't started growing so fast Dean couldn't seem to keep him in clothes that fit more than a month or so. His center of gravity changed, and his motor coordination became completely skewed, and he'd had to practically start all over. At fifteen and sixteen, he'd been all legs and arms and nothing was ever good enough.

He'd tried so hard. He'd given everything he had, and while, no, he wasn't Dean, he didn't think he was anything to be ashamed of either. He was damned good at hand to hand. He was a dead shot, and surprisingly adept with knives. He was fast, surprisingly so for someone his height, and spoke Latin more fluently than either Dean or his dad.

But none of that seemed to matter to Dad, and all of Dean's quiet reassurances that he'd done just fine got drowned out by Dad's harsh barks of criticism. He came to realize he would never measure up. Ever. Eventually, it stopped mattering. He finally got comfortable in his body, but he never became comfortable in his skin.

And then, one day, a school counselor had given him the means to dare to dream of something different for himself. He'd felt like a liability to his family for a long time, and it hurt that the things Sam thought he _did_ bring to the table were viewed as useless in his dad's eyes. No matter how he failed as a Winchester, there were some things he knew he could do, and do well.

"Oh my God, I can hear you thinking from here," Dean groaned, voice muffled in his pillow. Sam started, then huffed a laugh and couldn't help but smile when Dean lobbed a pillow at him without even looking to aim.

"Shut up. I'm just trying to be nice and give my lazy ass brother a few minutes extra to sleep in, since he's a growing boy… Oh, that's right. This is as tall as you're going to get," Sam teased in a mock conciliatory voice, and firmly shelved his meandering thoughts back into their box. No matter how estranged he'd felt with his father, he'd never felt more at home than with his brother.

Dean pulled his head up off the pillow and eyed Sam blearily yet critically, a slight frown on his face. "Any weird dreams? Visions? Headaches?"

Sam scowled at his brother for a moment, but then shook his head in response. "I don't think so."

"Really?" Dean asked, surprised. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Shuddup," Sam protested. "You're making me sound high maintenance, here."

Dean snorted heartily at that one, rolling over and heaving himself up in bed. "That's because you are, Samantha," he replied predictably. Sometimes Sam threw his brother softballs simply _because_ of how much enjoyment Dean got hitting them out of the park.

"Bite me," Sam said as he sat up, then quickly jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. "I was going to offer you first dibs on a shower, dude, but since I'm so high maintenance, I guess you can damn well wait," he called out, but without real heat, and slammed the door shut behind him. 

"Excuse me? Waitress? Am I ever going to get another cup of coffee? _Fresh_ coffee?" the man two booths down from theirs asked the poor waitress who was walking by. She wasn't even working the guy's table.

Dean's eyes were flinty as he glanced up at Sam, but seemed to settle at Sam's frown and the subtle shake of the head. "They're handling him," he reassured his brother quietly, and really, the waitresses were. Far more patiently than he ever could. 

They were just a couple of hours out of Chicago, and had arrived at the small diner just in time for the morning rush. It was a cute place, actually. It didn't take much to imagine high school girls in poodle skirts and boys with greased back hair and James Dean style t-shirts trying to look cool in the fifties style booths. The portions were generous and the prices reasonable. No wonder the place was busy.

While clearly understaffed, the waitresses were doing remarkably well keeping the plates coming and the coffee mugs full. Except for the one guy, who'd sent his cup back because it had tasted 'old'. 'Old' in Sam's book meant strong. 

Personally, he'd been sorry to see them toss it out to start fresh. But for as obnoxious as the guy was, no one's feathers seemed to be getting ruffled, and he quieted down, satisfied with the special handling he was getting, thank God. There was always one. 

Dean, too, seemed aggrieved at the loss of the strong coffee. He sat hunched forward, both hands wrapped around the mug, and had drunk half of it in two gulps, apparently uncaring that it was still scalding hot, and had looked slightly scandalized as the older woman behind the counter had poured it out into the sink.

"So are we ever going to talk about who the hell that woman was at the end of the vision? The one who told you to wake up?" Dean asked out of the blue.

Sam hated it when Dean did that. He'd kind of hoped his brother had missed the ramifications of that part of his vision, but really, he should have known better. Dean would have made a great police interrogator. He knew just when to ask his questions to catch Sam unawares – to keep his reactions unguarded. The bastard.

Dean was watching Sam intently, and he couldn't help but squirm. How did his brother do that, anyway? Make him feel eleven with just one question? Dean's eyebrow raised, and Sam knew he was cataloguing each fidget and nervous adjustment of his silverware. Well, there was nothing for it now.

"What about her?" Sam asked.

"She was clear, right? Not fuzzy?"

"She was clear," Sam agreed.

"Was she telling Pam to wake up?" Dean asked, automatically shortening the girl's name. It sounded odd to Sam, like they already knew her.

"I don't think so," Sam finally said after a long pause. Dean stilled completely.

"You don't think so? You think she was talking to _you_?" Dean asked nonchalantly. Yep. He was going to kill Sam for not discussing this sooner, but really, Sam himself still couldn't quite wrap his head around it, dammit.

"I do," Sam replied reluctantly. "I think that's why she wasn't distorted like everything else was. I think only I could see her."

"Okay, so getting these details is like pulling teeth with you, Sam. Quit stalling and tell me what the hell you think happened, and what it might mean, because I know you've been analyzing it from every possible angle like you always do, and I think I've been pretty patient here." 

Sam hated that he could feel his cheeks blush. He sighed, and tossed the knife he'd been fidgeting with on his now empty plate. The French toast had been really good, and while he'd noticed Dean's look of relief as Sam had cleaned his plate, he'd been grateful his brother hadn't said anything. He knew it had been a while since he'd had much of an appetite, as evidenced by the new wholes he'd had to punch in his belt.

"I think she might have been a ghost," Sam said.

"A ghost? Who saw _you_ in Pam's head?" Dean asked, frowning.

"It's the only thing that makes sense," Sam said, and automatically began to explain his theory. "If I were seeing her through Pamela's eyes, she should have been blurry and distorted like everything else was. And who else would she tell to wake up? Pamela was already. Well, sort of."

"You've never seen her before?" Dean asked, absently nibbling on the inside of his bottom lip. Sam shook his head. "What kind of an accent was it?"

"I'm not really sure. I mean, she only said two words to me. European, I think. Not French," Sam said.

"And nothing obvious about a cause of death? If she was a ghost?" Dean prompted.

"She was actually pretty mousy looking. She looked dead, but not… No slit throat or anything. Just gaunt and, well, dead."

"You think she helped sever the connection between you and Pam in the vision, don't you?" Dean asked. Sam nodded. "Well, that's good, then. Whoever she is, she seems to be on our side," Dean said after a moment's thought, and let the subject drop as he finished up his coffee and the last of his bacon.

They were already paid up and heading out the door when Sam let his eyes slide down to the receipt at the obnoxious guy's table, with his credit card resting on top. He didn't make eye contact with the man or his companion, who looked a bit harassed himself, and walked out the door without a second glance.

It didn't stop Dean from practically wheezing with laughter, though, as they got in the Impala. "Sam! You old dog! You are so busted! I didn't think you had it in you!" Dean crowed in glee, and Sam felt himself blushing all the way to his ears. His brother was entirely too observant. 

"So you think ol' Walter's got good credit, do you?" Dean asked casually as he started up the car, and Sam couldn't help but laugh. His brother had done it too.

It was a game he and Dean used to play as kids. Dad was always teaching them memory tricks. Instead of the normal license plate game most kids did when driving cross country, Sam and Dean memorized people's plates, the year, color and the make of their cars. They never knew when Dad would prompt them for the details of a car they'd passed, or even what a customer in a diner had been wearing, and what they had looked like.

Sam had witnessed a hit and run with Jessica, once, just a few blocks off of campus, and the silent, contemplative look she'd given him as he'd rattled off the details of not only the car and license plate but the driver as well to the cops had kept him on his guard for weeks afterward as he deftly avoided her probing questions.

A near photographic memory was essential to hunting, when they might only get a glimpse of something with which to try to determine what they were dealing with. It was also highly useful when memorizing names and credit card numbers in seconds flat. He and Dean used to do it with people who were especially rude or obnoxious. They didn't do it often, because it was a lot riskier than their normal credit card fraud methods, but it was still highly gratifying.

"You have officially made my day, Sammy," Dean said contentedly, and cranked up AC/DC on the stereo as they hit the interstate, thankfully later than the normal morning commute. There were thirty-four Lyons in the phone book, so they had some searching to do, and not much time to do it in. 

"So we've got a match?" Dean asked as he walked next to Sam towards the car.

He'd gotten another nosebleed in the Cook County Clerk's office, but thankfully it was _after_ he'd found what he was looking for. Pamela Elizabeth Lyon, nineteen. Daughter to Edward and Patricia. Mother deceased. One half brother, just a year and a half old, by Pamela's step-mother, Deborah.

"Yeah, I found her. She lives in Berwyn," Sam replied, and eased into the Impala with his head tilted up.

"Am I going to have to strip search you?" Dean demanded as he turned the key in the ignition. Sam eyed him in surprise, still holding the Kleenex against his nose.

"For what?" Sam asked. It annoyed him that Dean could make him feel guilty, even when he didn't do anything wrong. That he knew of.

"More Benedryl, you lightweight. You're not still trying to suppress the visions, are you?"

"Dude, it's just been a little over a day," Sam protested nasally. 

"You're not, right?" Dean persisted as he began to drive.

He kept shooting concerned sidelong glances, his eyes lingering on Sam's bloodied tissue, but it was clear he was trying hard not to stare. Sam pretended to ignore him as he looked over the street maps to direct him to Pamela's house.

"I'm not," Sam said after figuring out the quickest route to get there. They were less than a half an hour away.

Even though it was brisk out, it wasn't miserable like Chicago was capable of getting. Instead, it was crisp. There were small clusters of leaves still left in the trees, but they'd long since lost their fall splendor. 

Although it was cool out, and getting towards late afternoon, there were a lot more people walking about than Sam had expected. They seemed to be mostly suits, both men and women, who clearly worked in the business district, and college age kids, with back packs full of books and bundled up in trendy, logo emblazoned sweatshirts or baggy 'not trying' clothes that only the professionally unemployed could get away with.

"So how do we go about this? I mean, the parents aren't going to be too forthcoming with us, considering they're the ones who drugged their little girl and all," Dean asked as Sam watched one small cluster of college students standing just outside a Starbucks, both hands wrapped around their warm cups to help stave off the chill. It made him nearly smile, but also a little sad, that he thought of them as kids in his mind.

Then he saw her. Standing in the center of the group. Still in that damn white dress of hers. Staring right at him. _So beautiful_. He liked her hair like this, soft and flowing. She looked ethereal, and had her arms wrapped around her torso, as if she felt the cold a little. It took everything in Sam not to tell Dean to stop the car, to get out and try to go to her, to see if she was real. He fought off the familiar tugs of grief as he regretfully let his eyes slide past her and tried to focus on what street they were coming up to when he was suddenly slammed against his seatbelt.

"That's it!" Dean snarled.

Alarmed, Sam looked around to see what had caused his brother to practically slam on the brakes and pull over to the side of the street. "Dean?" he asked, bewildered. "What's going on? Did you think of something?"

"What the hell was that look?" Dean asked his brother, who'd finally pulled the tissue away to find no fresh blood.

"What look?" Sam asked, frowning.

"You think I don't know your facial ticks? That I don't see when you tense up so tight I think you might snap in half? What are you seeing out there when you do that, Sam? Talk to me," he practically begged.

If it weren't for the fact that Dean looked terrified, Sam knows he'd probably lose his temper with his brother at his hypocrisy. It wasn't that long ago that it was Sam begging, and damn if Dean hadn't shut him down but good. But Dean didn't beg, not like this, and Sam felt the anger leave as quickly as it had come. When Dean asked like _this_, Sam couldn't help but want to do everything in his power to ease the look of distress on his brother's face.

"Dean…" Sam began, but realized he had no idea what to say.

"What are you seeing, Sam?" Dean asked again, his voice thick with emotion. Sam closed his eyes. 

"I see Jess," he admitted, his voice breaking.

"What?" Dean asked.

"I mean… Just for a second. I see Jess," Sam confessed.

"As in, a ghost?" Dean asked, frowning and automatically turning to look back over his shoulder at the students who'd since dispersed, heading in the opposite direction from the Impala.

"I don't know," Sam said, his voice still deep with suppressed emotions.

"Does she ever say anything to you? Approach you?" Dean hesitantly asked. Sam shook his head. 

"No, never. And when I try to take a closer look, she's always gone."

"Do you think…" Dean began, then stopped. Clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to ask. Sam helped him out.

"That I'm hallucinating? That it's all in my head? That she's not really there? Hell yeah, I've wondered about it. _Is_ that it? I have no idea. It started happening around the same time I started actively trying to suppress the visions, so I'm kind of hoping that it'll eventually stop. Just like I'm hoping these nosebleeds quit," Sam admitted.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Dean asked, looking hurt.

"What was I supposed to say? Hey, Dean, I think I'm seeing Jess! But really, I'm fine! It's just one more freaky thing to add to my repertoire," Sam said bitterly and scrubbed at his face in frustration.

Dean sat next to him, letting the engine idle, and Sam watched him warily as a myriad of expressions flashed across his brother's face, before settling on a gentle look Sam hadn't seen in a long time. It was the expression Dean used to get a lot when Sam was little. Dean in full big brother mode. There'd been times when he'd been a teenager that it had driven him nuts. Now it just made his heart hurt. God he'd missed his brother.

"I've been a shit head. I admit that. Yeah, Sam, I hate this Shining thing of yours, but that's because there's nothing I can do to help you with it. You think I like to see you in pain? Seeing people dying?" Dean asked.

"Dean…" Sam began, frowning, but Dean put up a hand.

"No. Let me finish. I'm sorry I called you a freak, Sam. I was trying to lighten things up, but knew as soon as I said it, that it hit home. I don't think that. Not really. Am I terrified? Hell yeah. I have no idea what to do to help, and you know me, Sam. Being helpless is not something I do well."

"I know, Dean," Sam began, but Dean shook his head. He wasn't done. 

"I know I've been shutting you out, and I'm sorry. I know you probably want to punch me when I keep making you talk about this stuff. I can see how uncomfortable it makes you feel, and I know I'm the reason you're reluctant. Some brother I am, huh?" Dean's face tensed up in self recrimination, his tone bitter. Sam opened his mouth to protest, but snapped it back shut again at his brother's expression.

"It freaks me out, and I'm not the one with the damn visions. So what must it be doing for you?" 

Sam wanted to say something, but had no idea what would help ease his brother's guilt. Dean was right. Sam was freaked out, and had been spending the past month practically trying to wish it away. Which, when Sam thought about it, made him feel about five years old. 

"But you're not now," Sam finally said, and hated how small his voice sounded. Dean flinched.

"Yeah, Sam. I'm not now. I've been watching you quietly fade away for over a month now, and I'm done with that shit. You're too skinny, and how much blood have you lost anyway?" Dean asked, pointing to the tissue still in Sam's hand. Sam went to say something, but Dean interrupted.

"Don't answer. It was rhetorical. My point is that it isn't going away. Like it or not, it's a part of you, and right now, it's messing you up. And part of the reason why is because I've been not dealing. With this. With you. With dad. But that stops now. Well, some of it," he quickly amended, then went on. "You're not in this alone, Sam. We're all we've got, and we're going to figure this out, okay?"

Sam took a long, shuddering sigh, and looked over at Dean. "What if it's something evil? What if it's not me at all?" Sam asked quietly. "I only have visions that are somehow tied to the Demon or other people like me. That's pretty specific. If it was a gift, wouldn't it be a bit more global, like Missouri? And wouldn't it have shown up a lot sooner?" He didn't know what the expression was on his face, but Dean was wide eyed with emotion.

"Evil doesn't give, Sam, it takes. Even when people think they're getting something for nothing, they're not. Whatever that demon wants… I don't think it gave those abilities to you. It _wants_ them, to use or corrupt, or whatever, but I think you would have had them anyway, even if the Demon had never showed," Dean said with quiet conviction. "It just messed with them, somehow."

Sam leaned his head back and took a deep breath, then tilted his head to the side, feeling exhausted and yet oddly lighter as well. "Jesus, is this what you feel like when I do this shit?" he asked. Dean snorted.

"Sucks, don't it?" he asked, a small smile beginning to light up his face.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "It does."

"I don't know about you, but I feel better knowing what's going on with your Shining thing. I thought you had a brain tumor or something, what with all those nose bleeds," he said, and Sam frowned.

"Yikes."

"Yeah," Dean agreed sarcastically. "So no more secrets, okay? No matter how weird." He looked so earnest, and Sam realized he had the power to make Sam cave on things just as easily as he could with Dean.

"What about Jess?" Sam asked, and watched as Dean chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully.

"You don't see her now, right?" Dean asked. Sam shook his head.

"No, I only see her for a second before she disappears."

"Honestly?" Dean asked after a moment's thought, and continued at Sam's nod. "I think you're right. Give your body time to get back to normal before worrying about it. Hopefully it's a psychic fatigue thing or something." 

"Psychic fatigue thing?" Sam repeated, his lips curving in a smile.

"That's a technical term, bitch," Dean said seriously, then laughed. "So, done with the touchy feely stuff for now?"

"God yes," Sam moaned.

"Let's go see what life is like for the Lyons now that they've turned their daughter over to evil. Maybe it's meatloaf night. And later, if we're lucky, a little breaking and entering?" Dean asked, like he was planning the menu of a tantalizing dinner. Sam smiled wide, and Dean's answering grin felt just as bright.

"Hell yeah," Sam agreed.

"That's the spirit," Dean teased, and pulled the Impala back into traffic, and had the nerve to snicker as Sam groaned at the joke.


End file.
